THIRTY-EIGHT
I LIKE BARRY
It is Wednesday morning of spring break.
Tuesday Barry didn’t show up for breakfast. He didn’t answer the phone at his house, either. The whole day, I did nothing but worry about Barry. I called him again and again. Then I sent texts to Khalil, and he sent me YouTube highlights of Kyle Owens being great because Khalil thinks that is funny. I got a text from Carli, who took a picture of Andrew Wiggins’s Minnesota Timberwolves jersey at the mall in Mankato, where she was with her pouty friends. She said Wiggins should be my favorite player and not Joel Embiid, since I live in Minnesota and am not a big-butt center.
It was nice to be in contact with Khalil and Carli on Tuesday, but my mind and heart were with Barry.
There is no Barry again this morning. Renata gave me a very sad look at breakfast to mark the occasion. After Renata leaves, instead of going to the basement to do my dribbles, I decide to go for a run through cold and foggy Northrup.
I run down the street alongside the college, then take a right and run across the neighborhoods to the downtown area. This is not where I want to be—nobody wants to run in the downtown—but I must cross Highway 169 and then a bridge over the Minnesota River if I am to get on the Red Jacket Trail. Before I had played any basketball in Northrup, back in the fall when I’d just arrived in town, I ran on this trail all the time. It is peaceful. Actually, it’s how I met Barry. I found him out running barefoot in his karate uniform. He stopped me and said, “Hey, you’re the big guy? The new one from a different country?”
“Uh,” I answered.
“You like to run in the woods, too?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
We ran together for a half hour. He talked and talked, and he made me laugh by saying strange things. Then we ran to his trailer and he took me to McDonald’s. The rest is history.
But I am not at the trail yet.
I get to the highway crossing downtown just as the don’t walk light begins to flash. I jog in place, right near the natural food co-op and Taco John’s restaurant. Just then a very big pickup truck pulls in next to me. Small towns make it hard to avoid your enemies. The truck has a white sign on its side that says Kinshaw Construction. Kase Kinshaw sits in the passenger seat. His father, Rick, is driving. Kase squints at me, glares, then turns and looks forward.
The light turns green. “See you later, dick,” I say under my breath.
The truck is gone.
Then I take off sprinting and run all the way to the Red Jacket Trail, too fast. When I get to the access, I suck for air. Fog curls over the bank of the Minnesota River. It looks like there are clouds that blow across the trail.
I watch this amazing thing. Fog tumbles like a movie of waves of the ocean slowed way down. It goes and goes and goes.
Like chasing the ocean.
Okay. Yes.
I am a different kid now. Not the same as when I met Barry with his bare feet.
Barry is still the same kid. He still has Kase Kinshaw to make shit of him. He’s back to having no friends.
I take off and run. Barry has no friends. I have abandoned him. I know what that feels like. Instead of running the whole way down to the Highway 14 bridge, as I would usually do, I cross back to the Northrup side of the river on County Road 13. I run right down Main Street past QuikTrip and Taco John’s and past the co-op. I turn on the big, curving Linden Street and go up the river bluff, not toward the college, but toward the big trailer park where Barry lives. I have only been to this place two times, but I think I can remember where his trailer is.
I will not abandon Barry.
I turn on the access road. Shady Crest, the place is called. I run past a boy and a girl in their winter coats who are throwing a spongy football back and forth. The boy lets a pass drop and shouts, “It’s that guy! That basketball guy!” when he sees me.
Barry’s trailer is near the back of the neighborhood, on the edge of a ravine. The second time I visited him, me and Barry found a washing machine crushed at the bottom. On the other side of the ravine are farm fields that smell like pig shit sometimes and other times like cat pee, Barry says.
I see his car first, parked outside the gray-and-white trailer. I slow and begin to walk. I don’t want to see Tiffany or Merle. I take big breaths, because I will knock on his door even though I am scared.
I will not abandon my friend.
Turns out there will be no knocking. I come around the car and find Barry sitting in a lawn chair in the muddy yard. He has a short whip made from leather in his hand, and he is, over and over, whipping another lawn chair nearby him.
“Barry,” I say.
He will not look up.
“Bro, I am sorry,” I say.
He shrugs and keeps his whip going, whack, whack.
“I made a bad mistake. It was accident, though. Carli Anderson came to my house when I expected it would be you and . . . she is pretty hot, right? She’s good at basketball, too. So I lost my brain, okay?” I say.
Then Barry looks at me. He says his tae kwon do thing. “Courtesy, integrity, self-control, indomitable spirit.”
“Those are words,” I say.
“Courtesy, integrity, self-control, indomitable spirit?” he says again.
“Okay, but . . . I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Courtesy, integrity, self-control, indomitable spirit!” he shouts. “These are the tenets I live by, because I am a warrior, and so I will not kick you or call you curse words, because I am strong!” Barry shouts. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “That’s good. You know what else is good? I promise I will not abandon you.”
“You already have,” he says.
“No. I made a mistake, but I will not abandon you.”
“No?” he says.
“No,” I say.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I am very serious,” I say.
Barry takes in a big breath. “Have you thought about this decision, or are you just saying it to make me feel better?” Barry asks.
“I ran on the Red Jacket Trail just now and thought long and hard about our friendship.”
Barry nods. “Okay?” Barry says.
I nod back. “Yes. Now I would like to buy you some McDonald’s to show you I am sorry.”
Barry stands up. He places his whip on the chair he has been whipping. “Really?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“I am hungry,” he says.
“Then let’s do this, bro,” I say.
“Okay. I will go with you to McDonald’s, to accept your meal, and to accept your apology,” he says. Then he puts his hands together like a fist into palm prayer and bends at his waist to honor my offer.
I do the same back to him.
We have to stop by Renata’s office so I can borrow money. She is happy to have the opportunity to fund our meal.
At McDonald’s, while he puts a lot of french fries in his mouth, I say more to Barry, because Renata is right. My priorities are changing and I owe Barry the truth. “You need to know something important.”
“Okay?” he says through his french fries.
I talk again in the weird way we talked outside his trailer. “Because I am pursuing greatness in the sport, I will spend more time than ever practicing basketball. It is true that I am also interested in spending time with Carli Anderson, and not only because of basketball, but because she smells like honey and she’s funny and she is interested in the things I love. Even though I won’t be around as often, none of this will stop me from being your homeboy. Please come over for breakfast every day. I miss you, and so does Renata when you don’t. And nothing will stop us from being friends. Nothing ever. I am always your friend, and I will do a good job telling you if I won’t be available and will not break plans we already have together once they are made.”
“Okay,” Barry says. “Sounds good.” He smiles. He eats more french fries.
We are good now
. I know.
Barry comes to breakfast Thursday and Friday. He eats pancakes and egg sandwiches. Both mornings after breakfast we play dragon catcher with Margery and Regan. After dragon catcher, we all eat lunch in the Trinity dining hall with Renata and Professor Mike.
The afternoons of spring break belong to Carli Anderson, though.
THIRTY-NINE
MAKING OUT WITH A HOT GIRL
It is Friday afternoon. Because the main gym at Trinity is being used by the college softball and baseball teams, Carli and I go to the recreation center, where her dad is teaching a gym class that is full of his freshmen players from the men’s basketball team. The whole floor is reserved for Coach Anderson, but he doesn’t need it.
Coach Anderson’s boys warm up on one side of a net. Carli and I grab two balls off a rolling rack and begin to fire shots on the other. This is our third day doing the same thing. So far Carli’s knee is holding up well. We have gotten into a rhythm of practice together.
Carli doesn’t even need to warm up. She starts popping three-pointers from the men’s college three line like it’s no problem.
I know it’s a problem. I know how hard it is to do what she’s doing.
It takes me longer to get a feel. I don’t go out to the three-pointer line but practice my jumper at the elbows of the lane. I imagine giving Kyle Owens a head fake, like I’m going to drive, but then rising up and dropping a soft shot into the net, except in reality I miss. I do it again. I miss. I do it again. I make. I do it again. Soon, I hit three in a row from the same spot. That’s our cue to move on.
We lose one of the balls and do a stop-and-pop drill. Carli kills. She only misses one shot. I do the same drill and hit from six of the twelve spots. Usually we do this shooting progression three times before moving on.
But when I pass the ball over to her, instead of shooting, she throws it back. I hold on to the ball. “What?” I ask.
“Do you know I chose to be here with you instead of going to the Mall of America with my friends?”
“You did? What friends?”
“All of them,” she says.
“That’s nice. I’m happy,” I say.
“They’re super pissed at me. But I don’t care.”
“Basketball is important, right?” I throw the ball back to her.
She throws it back to me. “I’m not here just for basketball, okay?”
I stand holding on to to the ball.
She walks slowly up to me and grabs the ball from my hands. She stands very close. “Do you know the other reason?” she asks.
“No?” I say, like a question.
“I’m ready for you.”
“Oh?” I say.
“Guard me in the post.” She dribbles toward the basket and beckons me to follow with her left hand. I do. “Come on, man. Guard me,” she says.
“Okay.”
She dribbles. I guard her but also sort of don’t. I place my hand on her hip. She backs into me. She pushes in very close until her shiny ponytail is almost in my face, and then she spins and lays the ball up over the top of me. I raise my arms straight up to act like I am blocking. When she lands we are body to body, chest to chest, legs to legs. We both freeze solid.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hey,” she says.
We are stuck together, and my heart explodes.
Then there is a whistle. We jump apart. Her dad shouts from the other court, “How’s your knee feeling, Carls?”
“Okay! Great!”
“You two want to get in some scrimmaging?”
And then we are jogging toward the other court.
Okay. Here I am. We are here to play basketball?
I follow Carli around the net to where the dudes are, and I’m trying not to look at her legs, because Coach Anderson is standing next to the dudes and they want to play basketball. That’s what we’re doing here, right? Yeah, but . . . were we about to kiss right on the court?
Basketball. Basketball.
“Let’s do full five-on-five,” Coach Anderson says. “But you take it easy, Carls. No hard cuts, soft D for now.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. Her face is bright red.
Then we play. We use the offense I learned when I pretended to be Lawrence Rivers, so I am in the post. I spin and dunk several times. I’m better than the Division III freshmen ballers. Carli jacks two threes and hits them. They give her too much space because of her knee, but what she does is incredible, even if she’s not guarded closely. I watch the ball leave her hand. Her follow-through is like the neck of a swan.
She’s so beautiful I want to drink her from a glass.
After fifteen minutes, Coach Anderson blows his whistle. He says, “Thanks, Adam. Thanks, Carls. Great to have you two out here.”
Carli and I jog off the court, both of us are sweating. We drink at the drinking fountain—so cold and good in the corner. Carli picks up our warm-up tops from the floor. “Let’s go,” she says. I follow her. For some reason Carli doesn’t head for the main doors, the ones we came in through. She goes to a single door in the corner of the gym. We exit into a dark hallway. Carli throws our warm-ups on the ground, backs me into a wall, and kisses me with her cold, drinking-fountain mouth, but I can taste her sweat, too, salty and it tastes so good and it makes my feet feel like they are coming off the ground, like my head is a balloon filled with helium, like my chest is following my head into the clouds.
I almost say to her I love her and we should be married. I don’t, because as soon as I think it, I get so terrified that she will leave me. We slide onto the floor. Stop kissing. Sit next to each other. Hold hands. We breathe really hard.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I had to get that over with right now. I’m ready for you. I made my decision.”
“It’s a good decision?” I whisper back.
Carli says, “Yeah, right? It is, isn’t it?”
I want to ask her if she’s going to leave me, but I know that sounds so crazy. Instead I lean and kiss her neck. She breathes in deep.
“Okay. My dad could come walking through here any second.”
But we kiss again. Then we hear the boys running sprints in the gym. Could they come running through this hall? We leap up and sprint out of our spot into the main hall in the building. It is filled with college students.
Ten minutes later, I enter the living room at home through the front door. I don’t even know where I am. Margery and Regan are watching a movie about a sea monster on my TV. Regan turns and looks at me. She crinkles her brow. “What’s wrong with your face?” she asks.
Carli, is what I think.
“I’m a happy boy,” I whisper.
“Do you have the flu?” Margery asks.
I go into my bedroom. I tweet to my 236 @PolishHooper followers: @KyOw23 throws bricks when pressure is high. #weakballer
Bring it, Kyle Owens. @PolishHoops, the team Twitter of the Polish National Team follows me. I follow back. I am feeling so good!
I made out with a hot girl!
I am Adam Sobieski!
I am Hooper the Dragon!
FORTY
EATING TWIN PORTS PRIDE FOR LUNCH
Then it is Saturday. The D-I Fury has our first of three local games. Something special is coming after this game, too. Friday evening Devin called to ask if I would stay overnight at his house. His sister, Saundra, is playing the Polish Chopin music in a recital. “My pops and Saundra both want you to be there,” he said.
Renata agreed that I can stay.
Carli will drive me, go to the 17U girls’ game in Saint Paul, go to Saundra’s concert, then stay overnight at Tasha Tolliver’s house.
I am excited about what’s coming after the game, although I am a little scared to stay overnight at Devin’s house. I have never stayed overnight at anyone’s house, and Devin is not quite a friendly guy.
On the drive up, Carli pulls her SUV off the highway in Belle Plaine. She parks in the parking lot of a restaurant that sells pies. We make out.
Then an old grandpa knocks on the driver-side window with his cane and waves and laughs at us.
“Oh shit, dude,” Carli says. She blinks. Her lips are so red, and her green eyes are wet.
“Who is that?” I ask. I am dizzy on another planet.
“We better drive,” she says.
We go to the University of Saint Thomas then. Carli drops me off at a giant building in the middle of a very pretty campus. The building is called the Anderson Athletic and Recreation Center. “They named it after me,” Carli says.
“Really?” I ask, because I believe her.
“Duh!” she shouts. “No, you fool! Now go have a good game.”
I watch her drive away to Saint Catherine University, where Tasha Tolliver and the 17U girls’ Fury will go.
The team we play is called the Twin Ports Pride. They are made up of the best players in Northeastern Minnesota and Northwestern Wisconsin. I recognize some of these guys, because I watched them play in the state tournament on TV. They are mostly all farmers, like me.
“Run that motion,” Coach Cliff tells us.
Mr. Doig nods.
“You know what you need to do,” Coach Cliff says.
The game begins. Their center, Joe Hunter, outjumps me to start it. I timed my jump badly, or it wouldn’t have happened. A fine guard, Evan Pingatore, streaks down the court with the ball. He stops and pops. The Twin Ports Pride is up three to nothing.
This is the last lead they will have. In fact, it is the last minor victory they have for the whole afternoon.
Khalil and Devin are better than everybody by maybe 50 percent. They run pick and roll that is not really part of our offense, but how can you say no to these guys? They are incredible. Even though Khalil is only five foot eleven, he attacks the rim. He lays it in or dishes to Devin, who doesn’t just attack the rim, but destroys it.
Rashid gets the start at the four. He and I are better than everybody except Devin and Khalil by maybe 25 percent. Our motion causes many switches. I end up posting guards. Rashid does the same. In the middle of motion, if the defense sags, I put up jump shots. I make two of three.
“You looking smoother all the time, man,” Devin says during a time-out.
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